


Bière de la Licorne

by DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis



Category: The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
Genre: Bullying, Drinking, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Major Original Character(s), Military Backstory, Military Homophobia, Minor Original Character(s), Peer Pressure, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prostitution, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, major turning point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4311171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis/pseuds/DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the beginning of World War I, and Dmitri finds himself stationed along the borders of Germany and France in the territory of Alsace-Lorraine during the fall of 1914. </p><p>Having enlisted in the Zubrowkian military only a few months prior, he begins to adapt to his first exposures to military life and culture, which contrast starkly from his prior experiences as a youth, having been raised mostly in the sheltered confines of a boarding school and relinquished his place at the prestigious Akademie Zubrowka--where he had once hoped to study music.</p><p>The story in question concerns the events of November 28, 1914 (shortly after Dmitri's twenty-third birthday), a year to the day after the Saverne Affair in Alsace-Lorraine. It highlights a pivotal turn in Dmitri's young life.</p><p>Content is in my opinion not much of an issue with this story--the usual harsh language at times, adult content, but nothing major.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bière de la Licorne

It was on November 28, 1914 (a year to the day since the Zabern-Affäre) that Dmitri found himself stationed along the formerly French territory of Alsace-Lorraine. 

His troop, along with several others, was temporarily residing in the town of Saverne, where one year prior a great incident of political unrest took place between German soldiers and the populace of the city. 

The remnants of that conflict could still be felt, as the territory's French population found itself suppressed by the Germans, even if not by the brunt of a siege. 

More relevantly, Alsace found itself the subject of hot contest, as France had declared war on Germany in August. They would doubtlessly attempt to gain back the territory they lost to the German Empire in the Franco-Prussian war the century prior (this was obvious to all parties concerned), which caused German authorities to take action in protecting the coveted asset. 

Zubrowka, as it happened, cast its lot with the Germans in defence of Austria, sending its troops to support the German war effort, and thus found itself enmeshed in the conflict with France by association. 

Among the troops sent to help the German Empire keep its hold over Alsace-Lorraine was a brigade of relative novices known simply as the Zig-Zag, under the command of Brigadier Reginald Messerschmidt, a portly old baron from Lutz. 

The then twenty-three year old Count Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis had enlisted in Messerschmidt's brigade during the summer of 1914, shortly after Zubrowka pledged its ill-fated support for Germany and Austria (and more relevantly, shortly after the death of his fiancee, the nineteen year old Lutz native Annabelle Litz, and his departure from Akademie Zubrowka, where he had studied music up until that summer). 

[End of Prelude]

The morning of November 28, 1914 began in stark contrast to the violent events seen in Saverne a year to the day prior, unfolding in sleepy motion as the rising sun tinged the seamless sky in tints of pallid orange. 

The Zig-Zag brigade was already awake as dawn crept upon the horizon, performing their morning exercises outside the lavish nineteenth-century Grand Perrier hotel, which the vastly wealthy Brigadier Messerschmidt had chosen as their troops barracks. 

After three hours of rigorous training, Messerschmidt's brigade was treated to a large breakfast courtesy of the Grand Perrier staff, and left largely to their own devices thereafter. 

During this free time, Dmitri found himself in the company of his German friend, Ludwig Haller, whose azure eyes glimmered as he watched the dark-haired Zubrowkian perform a card trick in the hotel's lobby. 

“How do you do it?” Ludwig asked, dazzled, as Dmitri put away his cards. 

“Mm? Magic, of course!” Dmitri gave the blond a sly smile as he placed the deck of cards back in his pocket. “I /am/ a magician, after all...” 

“Of course.” 

Ludwig flashed Dmitri a bright smile in turn. It was the usual answer, one he had grown to expect whenever he inquired about the intricacies of a given card trick. He couldn't help but ask, however, mainly because he wished to hear Dmitri give him that answer. 

To Ludwig, Dmitri /was/ magic, not least because the Zubrowkian Count had been the only friend he'd known during his lonely youth. 

Back in his native Berlin, Ludwig had never garnered close friends, and his relationship with his father (a moderately successful butcher) was notoriously strained. The point of contention was the fact the aging butcher wished for his son to enter the family business, against Ludwig's ambition to become a soldier. 

In the end, however, Ludwig's will won out, namely due to the budding war (which brewed over the assassination of Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand by Serbian nationalists). It proved to be the catalyst the young Berliner needed to jump-start his dream, precisely as Dmitri relinquished his own. 

“Say, where do you think we should go today? Messerschmidt is giving us the day—about time, if you ask me.” Dmitri asked, stretching his lithe limbs as he stood. 

“Hm.” Ludwig frowned, giving the question some thought. Their time in Saverne had been brief, arriving only two days before.

“We should go see Château des Rohan—you know, the castle built by that old lecher Cardinal,” Dmitri suggested, giving a light shrug. “They say it's very beautiful.” 

“Alright.” Ludwig agreed. He couldn't care less about the history or supposed beauty of an old ruin such as Château des Rohan, in truth, but it was the dynamic of their friendship that Dmitri led and Ludwig followed—as was the way Ludwig preferred things. 

So it was set that the two would visit Château des Rohan that day, where they spent many hours as Dmitri admired the restored structure's neoclassical architecture, as well as the museums it held since the latter part of the previous century.

By the time evening set upon Saverne, Dmitri and Ludwig had wandered throughout the entire city, mostly taking in the scenery. 

It was only at Ludwig's unusual insistence (he did not wish to cause a problem with Bigadier Messerschmidt) that Dmitri agreed to return to the Grand Perrier, though he was restless to explore more of the city by streetlight. 

On their way back to their respective rooms, however, they were stopped by several young soldiers from troops under Messerschmidts' command, who were congregated in the lobby. 

“Hey! Lovebirds! Had a nice time?” A pock-marked youth from Innsbruck named Ernst Kromer called to them from afar. 

“Let me take care of this.” Dmitri told Ludwig, rolling his eyes as he approached the Austrian.

“I asked you a question, you fruit.” Kromer replied, giving Dmitri a firm push. “Did you have a nice time?”

“What do you want, Ernst?” Dmitri replied, attempting his best to conceal moderate exasperation. 

“What do /I/ want? Why, we were thinking on having a nice time ourselves.” Kromer disclosed with a smirk. “Messerschmidt's fallen ill—they say it was food poisoning. So we're sneaking out and going to a tavern. You can come if you'd like. Unless you want some time alone.” 

Dmitri was, at this point, used to Kromer's teasing, though he highly resented its occurrence. 

“Yeah, we'll go.” Dmitri accepted the offer, weary of being the subject of such juvenile ridicule.

“Fine. We're leaving now.” Kromer shot back seconds later, a bit taken aback by Dmitri's swift answer. He had extended the offer only as a joke, and hadn't expected Dmitri to agree.

“W-what? We can't go! Messerschmidt will be pissed when he hears!” Ludwig, ever the exemplary soldier, shot Dmitri a strained whisper as they followed Kromer and the others.

“Well, what did you expect me to do? I wasn't going to let him have his fun. Besides, who's to say Messerschmidt will find out? Didn't you hear—he's sick.” Dmitri snapped back as they exited the building. “Just go along, for Christ's sake!” 

Ludwig merely sighed in response. Though it was not in his nature to defy an order given by superiors, his desire to please his friend rendered him conflicted and ultimately won out.

In twenty minutes' time, the small group of soldiers made their way to a rickety old tavern located at the city's edge. 

Dmitri had never been in such a strange kind of place before, having come from (and rebelled against) the Scheinwelt of upper-class Lutz, and was instantly curious. Bourgeois Ludwig, by contrast, was immediately apprehensive of the surrounding squalor as they entered the tavern. 

The pair hesitantly settled at the bar, along with Kromer and the rest, looking terribly out of place amongst the predominantly lower-class clientele. 

“Can I help you boys?” A busty blonde barmaid made her way to them shortly after, resting her elbows on the bar in such a way as to amplify her already ample cleavage. 

“We'll just have a few beers.” Kromer replied, his tanned hand wandering across the splintered wood of the bar to caress her crossed arms. “Thanks, sweets.” 

The barmaid gave a brief nod at his order, returning with a few pitchers of beer moments later. 

Dmitri held his foggy glass with mild curiosity as the buxom blonde filled it, not knowing what to expect. His experiences with alcohol at that time had consisted of imbibing solely fine liquor. 

“It's not poisoned, I promise.” The barmaid stated with a wink, giving the notably uncomfortable Dmitri a small smile as she walked away to serve the other patrons. 

“I think that *Wacke broad likes you,” Kromer told Dmitri as he raised his glass to his lips, slurping it noisily before slamming it on the table. “Too bad she doesn't know you're a faggot!” 

“I'm not--” Dmitri started, clutching his glass, but decided against engaging Kromer. 

“Then why don't you go up to her and ask her if she wants to fuck?” Kromer replied. “Maybe she'll give you a pity shag...”

The rest of the troop snickered stupidly at Kromer's remark, interrupted only when they spied a group of scantily-clad Alsatian women descending down the tavern's worn stairs. 

“Look—the entertainment's here!” A buck-toothed, dim-looking Nebelsbad native (who had spent his former months imprisoned at Checkpoint 19 for petty theft before signing up for the military) pointed with a grin.

“So it has.” Kromer gulped his beer before abandoning the glass and making his way over to one of the girls, engaging her in (no doubt lurid) conversation. 

The others soon followed suit, each grabbing a wench from the crowd. 

“Ain't you candy-asses gonna grab a girl?” Kromer taunted Dmitri, who had only begun to come around to the idea of drinking the dingy beer, as he sat back down at the bar. “Or are you going to sit there and cuddle?”

Dmitri said nothing. He merely put down his glass, seeing Kromer's challenge as an excuse to both abandon the beer and shut him up. 

He walked over to one of the girls, an attractive-looking twenty-eight year old Alsatian known simply as Carlotta, whose overly ornate dress hugged her generously curved features. 

“Evening.” Dmitri said, raising his eyes from the floor after some initial hesitation. It had been a while since he'd engaged a girl in more than fleeting conversation, having recently suffered the loss of his fiancee.

“Well, aren't /you/ a sweet boy?” The russet-haired Alsatian answered, taking Dmitri's hand in hers and flashing him a smile. Though she sought to engage him in flirtation, she had meant her words—she was accustomed to the the crude ways of the usual customers encountered at such a lowly tavern and was pleasantly surprised by his almost demure demeanour. 

Dmitri flinched when Carlotta took his hand, stunned by her boldness. 

He was one unacquainted with the flirty ways of low-class /putes/, having spent all his life until that point among the upper crust of Zubrowkian society. Moreover, Annabelle's death was still fresh in his mind—a part of him couldn't help but feel he was betraying her by accepting the attentions of another. 

“I'm Carlotta, by the way.” Carlotta purred, batting her long black lashes at him. “And you are?” 

“M-my name's Dmitri.” Dmitri answered, his voice shaking slightly as he spoke. He hadn't expected to be successful in his haphazard attempt to address her, and saw no alternative but to follow the others' example and take her back to the bar. 

Upon leading Carlotta back to his troop's place at the dimly-lit bar, however, he discovered his beer glass was empty. 

“Nice of you to join us—we were starting to worry you weren't gonna make it!” Kromer greeted him as he sat. “By the way, Kurt drank your beer. You were just staring at it so we figured you didn't want it.” 

Dmitri nodded, secretly relieved to be rid of the beer. 

“Oh, they drank your beer?” Carlotta pouted, settling in Dmitri's reluctant arms as they sat. “Don't worry—I'll get you a new one.” 

Dmitri could not intervene soon enough to stop her—in a few seconds' time, Carlotta flagged her barmaid comrade. 

“Mitzi—I need a beer for the sweet soldier boy here!” Carlotta shouted, puffing her chest at Dmitri's face as she waved. “And one for me, if you don't mind.” 

A few minutes later, Mitzi appeared with the promised beers. 

Carlotta gladly took hers, imbibing freely from the foam-topped brim of her glass as she tangled her fingers in Dmitri's dark hair. 

Dmitri sat in vexation, torn over the sensations Carlotta's caresses conjured in his youthful body and his loyalty to Annabelle's memory.

“What's wrong, aren't you gonna drink your beer?” Carlotta asked, holding Dmitri close. 

“Ah, yes.” Dmitri gave her a sharp nod, reaching for the beer. At least it would give him an excuse to avoid thinking of touching her, he thought to himself as he grabbed it.

“It's a local brew, made here in Saverne.” Carlotta informed him as he took his first tentative sips. “It has a history.” 

“History?” Dmitri asked, curious, squirming slightly as he looked to her.

“Mhm. Right here in Saverne, they say that a unicorn horn was once found, in the ruins of a castle. That's where our town gets its symbol—a unicorn—and where the beer gets its name.”

“I see.” It was more story than history, Dmitri thought as he emptied his glass, though to uneducated Carlotta, the terms seemed interchangeable.

Still, he found her presence a frail sort of comfort in the wake of Annabelle's death, and he happily spent the course of several hours in conversation with her, much to the dismay of Ludwig, who had hoped the excursion wouldn't be long. 

Dmitri remained oblivious to Ludwig (as always) for the rest of the evening, failing to notice his friend's eventual departure as the hours dwindled in Carlotta's company. 

“So, who's coming upstairs?” Kromer asked once everyone was sufficiently drunk, holding the curvy brunette he'd picked for himself by the hip. 

“Upstairs?” Dmitri asked, having no idea of what the Austrian spoke. 

“Yeah, you dumb fruit. When you're done at the bar you go upstairs—don't you know anything?” Kromer retorted with a snicker. “So are you going or are you going to go home like your faggot friend?” 

Dmitri froze. In truth, he /didn't/ know anything about bars doubling as brothels, or the kinds of things which usually occurred in them.

“What's wrong? You scared? Or have you not told your lass you're a fucking /faggot/?” Kromer's laugh echoed throughout the dingy establishment, this last remark being what would push the young Count over the edge that night.

“I'm not a—a fucking faggot!” Dmitri snapped, becoming pale with ire as he slammed his glass on the bar, shattering it on impact. 

He reached for Kromer, his rage fanned by his drinking, and slammed his head against the splintered wood of the table (breaking his nose in the process). 

“Don't you ever call me that again, or I'll fucking kill you, you hear!” Dmitri snarled, lifting Kromer by his bloody collar and pressing the cold metal of his trembling pistol to his throat. 

Kromer simply nodded, being more bark than bite in the end as he withdrew from the flustered Count's space. 

“The same goes for the rest of you fruits!” Dmitri glared at his comrades, quelled from his drunken outburst only when Carlotta reached for him. 

“Come with me...” She urged him, mainly to dissipate the confrontation, as she tugged on the sleeve of his uniform. “Leave them. You and I, let's go upstairs. Come on.” 

Dmitri shivered as he allowed Carlotta pull him from the group, his nostrils flaring as he followed with haphazard steps. 

She led him upstairs, to a dark, unkempt room at the end of the corridor, where she proceeded to lay him on the bed and undress him. 

Dmitri went from fiery to petrified as she straddled him, not knowing how to react. To date, his only true sexual experience had been with his fiancee Annabelle, existing in the context of a great and tender love. 

This, by contrast, seemed spontaneous and crude. To the young Dmitri, it was a farce—a defilement of what he had thought to be the only acceptable incarnation of the act.

Yet even in the scope of its vulgarity, it was strangely enjoyable. It was not like the abuse he'd suffered in childhood at the hands of his mother and the concierge, existing as ambiguous territory in the sphere of Dmitri's mind.

She, in turn, gyrated her hips to accommodate his erect length within her, legs spread at either side of him as her cold hands stroked his flat chest. 

Dmitri grunted, notably troubled as she moved above him. He kept his eyes from gravitating to the ceiling as he felt the brunt of her motions, finding the fist incarnation of strictly carnal union to be a tense and confounding beginning. 

He eventually came to a realization, however, rolling buxom Carlotta over and giving in to the dark thrill of his lust as he pumped her. 

People could—and would—be used simply for pleasure.

It was only in such terms, he concluded, that he could hope to bask in bliss without betraying love, which existed purely for Annabelle in the amber reign called past.

**Author's Note:**

> *Wacke: An ethnic slur used against Alsatians.


End file.
